Next of Kin
by Moonhawk64
Summary: In the aftermath of The Great Game, Harry Watson is not pleased with Sherlock Holmes. The feeling is definitely mutual, and John agrees. Not slash, despite Sherlock's answer to Harry's stubbornness.  Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Next Of Kin**

By Moonhawk64

Disclaimer: I own nothing except a cat that is apparently destined to grow up to be a bear, if the vet is right about her breed. I don't own Sherlock, et al, however, because slavery is illegal. I only wrote this for enjoyment, not money.

A/N: Edited to address a plot hole. They still probably wouldn't do it this way, but that's what's called "creative license." By the way, I'm American, but I've just spent the last couple of weeks watching various versions of Sherlock Holmes, so I'm afraid some "British" has crept into my writing. Sorry for the inconsistency.

* * *

DI Gregory Lestrade took in the lavish appointments of the long, black limousine in which he rode with the Holmes brothers. The butter-soft leather seats, the wood-laminate trim, the sound-proofing which effectively silenced the sirens of the ambulance they were following behind much too fast. There was even a mini-bar, which Greg had to resist the urge to partake of. It had been a long day. A long week, actually, and it was not done yet. Instead of the wished-for scotch, he turned his attention to his companions, who had been silent since the automobile had started moving.

"He's a survivor, you know." Greg told Sherlock. Sherlock barely glanced at him, but Greg had not merely been voicing a meaningless platitude in order to cheer up the thin, pale man (although he was slightly less pale with the first-degree burns giving him unwelcome color). Sherlock had gotten off relatively lightly, with only the burns and singed hair. John Watson, however, had suffered worse, although not from the explosion - or even the half-drowning as they'd escaped the explosion by jumping into the pool. John had instead been shot, the bullet traveling, as near as they could tell by the cursory exam by the first-responders, through his back just below the clavicle and out his chest very close to the heart. He'd been rasping pink froth into the oxygen mask as he was loaded quickly into the ambulance, indicating a punctured lung.

"He's survived being shot before." Greg went on earnestly. "Hell, I'll bet he'll even survive the Zombie Apocalypse. Course, you probably don't even know what a Zombie Apocalypse is..." He muttered, mostly to himself.

"Actually," Sherlock croaked, then cleared his throat. Chlorine was not kind to the vocal chords. "John made me sit through 'Shaun of the Dead'. Said if the Zombie Apocalypse ever came, he wanted a sniper's rifle, because the farther away you can kill the enemy from, the better." He finished listlessly, and turned to stare out of the window. Lestrade frowned.

"Most people want a sword." He answered, trying now to simply distract Sherlock. "Probably because it's more glamorous." Sherlock's eyebrows puckered in puzzlement at that, but he apparently didn't see fit to comment. After a moment, however, he did deign to say,

"John did once say he learnt how to use a Falchion in the army. Why, I don't know." At Greg's look of confusion, Mycroft chimed in for the first time.

"It's a machete-like sword used for chopping strikes."

"Oh. Sounds very...practical...for a Zombie Apocalypse." Lestrade commented. Mycroft nodded. Before he could say anything more, however, the big car came to a halt. Greg was startled to discover they were already at the entrance to the hospital's trauma center.

The three men barreled into the emergency room. Mycroft went immediately to the petite, but competent-looking redhead at the admissions desk to inquire about John, however, several minutes of intense, but quiet conversation later, Mycroft returned to the other men.

"She won't tell me anything." He said huffily. "Harry Watson called. Someone's already informed her of what's happened. She's on her way, but gave the nurse strict instructions not to give any information to anyone who is not next of kin. Even the police." Greg looked startled.

"What?" he said, "but...?"

"Next of kin only." Mycroft repeated firmly. "Which means only Harry Watson."

"Damn! We need to -" Sherlock started towards the admissions desk, but Mycroft stopped him by placing his umbrella across Sherlock's knees with a minimum of movement. "So what are we supposed to do until she gets here?" Sherlock snapped. Mycroft merely raised his eyebrows, then said, "Get a coffee and sit down to wait." And did just that.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N - This is where the "T" rating comes from - course language.

* * *

Sherlock tensely studied every person that came through the doors, but only long enough to determine that he or she was not Harry Watson, because he just couldn't be bothered to care about their boring little lives and injuries when John Watson was who-knows-where having who-knows-what done to him. Provided, of course, he was still alive. And, damn the man! Twice in one night he'd attempted to sacrifice his life for Sherlock's, and Sherlock wasn't even sure his life was worth someone else sacrificing for! No, that wasn't right. It wasn't that his life was or was not worth the sacrifice, it was simply that Sherlock didn't want _John_ sacrificing his life for _anyone_, under _any_ circumstances, and wasn't that a kick in the arse! So he did have a heart after all, and he'd given it to John for safekeeping without even noticing. But Moriarty had, the bloody git! And what made it worse was that, sooner or later, he was going to have to tell Mycroft, and see what kind of security arrangements could be made for John while he was in hospital. Provided, of course, that John survived. And that made Sherlock apprehensive all over again, and it was a feeling both unfamiliar (even uncomprehending) and unwelcome. Imagine, a sociopath with no feelings or empathy being scared for someone else! Would wonders never cease!

Damn the man!

But Sherlock was only able to think about such things for so long before he found his mind running in circles and had to stop. So instead he studied everything else: the other people already in the waiting room (that one a woman waiting for a neighbor or sibling - younger, he estimated - who'd been injured in a household accident, judging by the bloody kitchen towel she held which wasn't her style if compared to her clothing [the towel was way too frou-frou]; this one a man whose wife was in with their sick child - their other child left with a neighbor or other baby-sitter, he could tell by the combination of pink diaper bag with larger brown jacket stuffed into it sitting on the seat beside him), health-care workers moving about their mysterious tasks (but none of them came out looking for anyone waiting for John Watson, damn it), equipment both recognizable and un-...

The door opened and Sherlock glanced automatically at the person entering. A short, sturdy woman with sandy-colored hair who walked in with just a hint of stiffness and carefulness that told Sherlock that she was not sober but putting on a decent act. She had John's nose and hands. The fading indentation on her finger said recently divorced and her worry said she wasn't here for herself but for someone else - but not her ex-spouse. He nudged Lestrade and stood.

"Harry Watson just arrived." And he hurried over to her. He didn't bother to note Greg and Mycroft following.

"Excuse me." Sherlock said impatiently. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and you're Harry Watson and I want to know how John's doing but they won't tell me-"

"I know who you are." Harry snapped. "Someone named James Moriarty called to brag about it. Told me everything, you son of a bitch!" And she rounded on Sherlock and punched him square in the jaw. Sherlock went to his knees, thinking,

'Oh, good, at least she's not angry or anything...'


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock blinked hard to clear his vision, then hauled himself to his feet.

"Are you all right?" Mycroft asked calmly.

"Fine." Sherlock answered tersely. He looked at Harry. She had her fist in the air to strike again, but for once Lestrade was making himself useful (in Sherlock's opinion) and was holding her arm. "What was that for? I didn't shoot John!"

"You might as well have done!" Harry yelled. "It's your fault this happened." By now, orderlies and security personnel were converging on them. Harry pulled away from Lestrade and walked a few steps, trying to calm down. The last thing she wanted was to end up in jail. That wouldn't help John at all. Finally, she turned to the red head from admissions. "I don't want this man -" and she pointed at Sherlock, "anywhere near my brother!"

"And your brother is-?"

"John Watson. Admitted with a gunshot wound and I don't know what all other injuries, but this man is to blame!" She spat. Under the burn, Sherlock paled. Not see John? But...he needed to see John! Needed to know he was going to be all right.

"This man shot your brother?" One of the security guards, a burly, dark-haired man, looked at Sherlock.

"No." Lestrade answered. At his questioning look, Greg quickly fumbled out his badge and showed it to him. "Someone shot John because of Sherlock." He still looked confused, but Harry didn't care.

"Yes, because of you! I blame you! Dragging John all over the city, getting him blown up and shot -"

"I didn't drag John anywhere! He followed me of his own free will!"

"Then maybe he needs to have his head examined, because he's obviously gone daft!"

"Oh, this from a screaming drunkard? How many lives did you endanger driving here, eh? Obviously someone needs to be locked up, and it isn't John!"

By this time, both of them where screaming, Lestrade and one security guard holding onto Harry, three more holding Sherlock. Mycroft simply looked on, eyebrows raised at the row.

"All right, you're all leaving, right now!" The burly security guard snapped. "This is a hospital, not a football stadium! Take your argument and get out!" And he started pushing everyone out the door.

"But, my brother-" Harry started.

"In surgery." The admissions clerk interjected. "You won't be able to see him for hours anyway. Calm down and come back at 7:00."

"I will." Harry said with grim determination. "But he is not to be allowed anywhere near John's room!" She pointed at Sherlock. The clerk could see the worry in Sherlock's eyes, but there was nothing she could do. As John Watson's listed next of kin, Harry had every right to dictate who was and was not allowed to see a patient who was not able to make decisions for themselves. And that included patients who were not conscious. If and when John regained consciousness - and, having seen the computerized medical chart listing his injuries, she knew his condition was not very hopeful - then John could decide for himself. Until then, however... She shrugged apologetically at Sherlock, and went back inside the building.


	4. Chapter 4

The day after the explosion, Sherlock was forced to content himself with cheap telly until Lestrade called mid-morning with a report as to John's condition. He'd survived the surgery, but had a broken rib in the back, two holes in his left lung (one in front, one in back), and a chipped rib in front, where the bullet had grazed as it exited. There was also shrapnel from the explosion to contend with, but that was minor compared to the damage from the gunshot wound. They'd cleaned out the shrapnel and rib-bone fragments, replaced the worrisome amount of blood he'd lost, and repaired and reinflated the lung, but he was in critical condition. He was also at high risk of infection, including pneumonia. He was, at the moment, still unconscious, and Harry was with him. She was still angry with Sherlock, and wouldn't let him near (but, fortunately, she didn't notice the unusually alert and competent-looking orderlies who surreptitiously watched John's room). Sherlock went back to the bad telly, but kept his phone on the arm of the chair at all times, occasionally staring at it, willing it to ring, and losing track of what was going on on whatever inane show happened to be playing at the time.

Two days after the explosion, Sherlock developed a hacking cough. During one of his reports about John (and, to be honest, he was delivering the reports in person because he felt an obligation to keep an eye on Sherlock in John's absence due to Moriarty's continued evasion of the police), Greg had tired of listening to it, but he was also worried about the way Sherlock was rubbing his chest in pain. He liberally threw John's name around in order to bully Sherlock into his car and drove him to the nearest clinic, where Sherlock was duly diagnosed with a case of walking pneumonia. Humans were not meant to breathe water; it tended to cause problems like this.

That evening, John's lung collapsed again, and had to be reinflated. It took some effort to do so.

During the afternoon of the third day, John's lung partially collapsed again, but was easily reinflated. Later that evening, however, he developed pneumonia, and was placed on strong antibiotics. By midnight, the doctors were still not happy with his condition, and placed him on a ventilator. To ensure he didn't regain consciousness and fight the machine, he was placed in a medically-induced coma.

On the fifth day, Sherlock was feeling better, but still lamenting his inability to see John to anyone who would listen. Unfortunately, the flat was full of people: Mrs Hudson was serving tea to Sherlock, as well as Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sarah (who had called several times for reports of her own). All of them were becoming heartily tired of Sherlock's griping, especially since none of them were allowed to see John, either.

Suddenly, Lestrade's phone rang, and everyone fell silent, full of anticipation at the possibility that the caller was Harry with a more positive report. Finally, Greg sighed in obvious relief and said,

"Thank you, Harry. Would it be possible for - that's not what I...I see. Yes, I'll tell him." He rang off and looked up to see the others all staring hopefully at him. "Well, John's improved enough to be upgraded to serious condition. They've also removed the breathing tube, and taken him off the meds that were keeping him out. He's expected to regain conciousness late this evening. But, no, Sherlock, you're still not allowed to see him. Harry was adamant. And still, obviously angry at you." Sherlock sighed. Mrs. Hudson patted his hand.

"You know, it's too bad you two aren't married." She lamented. "Then, you would be his next of kin instead of that witch of a sister."

Suddenly, Sarah sat straight up. "Why don't you get married as soon as John's awake?" She suggested brightly. "Like Denny Crane and Alan Shore did in _Boston Legal_, because Denny had Alzheimer's, so he married his friend Alan so Alan would have legal rights to make decisions as Denny's condition worsened!" She told them in a rush. Everyone in the room stared at her.

"Um, aren't you his girlfriend?" Mycroft asked the obvious question. "Why don't you marry John?" Sarah shrugged sheepishly.

"Well, um, you see, John and I are more like...friends with benefits." She told them. "The benefit being I have a lilo John sleeps on when he's angry at Sherlock. We're not actually romantically involved any more."

"There, you see?" Mrs. Hudson said cheerily. "You two _can_ get married."

"I'll start the paperwork immediately." Mycroft said, pulling out his phone.

"We'll have to wait until John's conscious, of course, but that'll just give us time to plan everything." Sarah said hurriedly, grabbing Mrs. Hudson's hand and pulling her to her feet. "Oh, we have so much to do..."

Sherlock just stared, eyebrows raised, mouth open. Lestrade nudged him.

"I think you could use one of those shock blankets right about now, eh?" Lestrade said, chuckling.

* * *

A/N - So now you know "the solution" referred to in the summary! :) And, no, this story is still not going to become slash, though I was tempted.

And thanks to all the positive reviews!


	5. Chapter 5

The first thing John noticed was the steady beeping sound. The second thing he noticed was a dull pain in his chest. Slowly, he dragged his leaden eyelids open. He had to blink a few times to clear his fuzzy vision, but even then, everything seemed...distant. It took a moment, but John slowly realized he was in the hospital, and on heavy-duty meds. Morphine, he figured. He glanced around, and his eyes lit on Harry, dozing in a nearby chair, her hand on the edge of his bed, close to his own hand. It seemed to take a massive effort, but John moved his hand just enough to touch Harry's. He managed to clasp it lightly, squeezed and shook it. Finally, Harry's eyes opened. She glanced at her hand, clasped in John's, then looked up to find John's eyes barely open, but focussed on her.

"You're awake," She breathed. "Thank God." She leant forward and pressed the button to summon the nurse. "How do you feel?" She asked solicitiously.

"Bloody awful." He whispered, and even then, his voice cracked with dryness. Harry quickly grabbed a cup of water from the nearby table and put the straw into his mouth. John sipped just enough to soothe his dry throat, then spit out the straw to ask the question now uppermost in his mind. "Sherlock?"

"He's dead." Harry blurted, then regretted it as John closed his eyes and turned his head away from her. A single tear slipped down his cheek; the morphine lowering his emotional barriers. Harry only _wished _the consulting detective dead, for the injuries he'd caused her brother, but certainly didn't wish to cause him more pain herself. "John, I'm sorry, I-" but just then, the nurse came bustling into the room.

"Yes?" She asked. John opened his eyes. "Ah, you're awake, excellent. I'll go get the doctor." She turned to go, but the doctor happened to be right there, and entered the room immediately.

"I'm Doctor Langencamp." The tall, blond-haired man told John. "I need to ask you a few questions." John nodded. "First, tell me your name and date of birth..." John went through the standard questions, answering them, apparently, correctly, because Dr. Langencamp beamed at him, pleased. Then he asked, "What's the last thing you remember?"

"Um, explosion. Jumping into...swimming pool." Embarrassingly, his eyes filled with tears again. "Sherlock's dead." He finished tonelessly. He didn't notice the doctor's frown.

"No, there were no other casualties at the pool, and you were the only one injured badly enough to require hospitalization." The doctor corrected. John looked at Harry, startled.

"What? Harry, you said-"

"I'm sorry, I...I'm angry with Sherlock for nearly getting you killed." Harry stammered, ashamed. "I thought, if you thought him dead, you'd...oh, I dunno, stop this stupid running around and...oh, I wasn't thinking straight! I'm sorry, I just-"

"What I do is none of your concern!" John told her, using every ounce of strength he had to push himself up, ignoring the pain, "Sherlock is my friend! You...you get out! I want to see Sherlock!" He fell back onto the bed, panting painfully. Harry stiffened as if slapped.

"You don't...you can't mean that!" She denied.

"I do mean it. Nurse, get her out of here, and tell Sherlock I want to see him. Now!" John gasped. Dr. Langencamp had his hand on John's shoulder placatingly, trying to calm his patient. He nodded to the nurse, who grabbed Harry by the arm. Harry jerked away, but got up and stalked out of the room. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?" John whispered, not having the strength for a full sentence.

"I've been in contact with him, if that's what you're asking." Dr. Langencamp told John.

"He knows how to reach Sherlock." John's eyes were already drifting closed as the doctor said,

"I'll let him know. You rest now."


	6. Chapter 6

The next thing John was aware of was a hand resting on his arm. It was little easier to drag his eyes open, and no easier focusing, but when he did, it was to see that the hand wasn't Harry's. This one was slim, but longer and paler.

"Welcome back." A deep voice said cheerfully. John looked up to find Sherlock smiling down at him. He looked exhausted, but relieved.

"How long?" John managed.

"Six days since the explosion, fifteen hours since you woke up and tossed Harry out." Sherlock told him. John nodded and closed his eyes again. Sherlock thought for a moment that he'd fallen back to sleep again, but then John opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock again.

"You weren't here when I woke up before." John said, trying to work out what had been happening. Sherlock nodded grimly.

"Harry wouldn't let me. Course, you were in critical condition, and only next of kin was allowed, but she wouldn't even let the nurses keep me informed. I had to get reports as to your condition from Lestrade."

"When I woke up, she told me you were dead." John said.

"She really isn't happy with me. Says it's my fault you were almost killed. Like I did it deliberately or something." Sherlock said angrily.

"Course not." John patted Sherlock's hand comfortingly. Somehow, it did make Sherlock feel better, but he refused to analyse why. "Moriarty's fault, not yours." John frowned. "He dead?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Alive and on the loose. The police have train stations, airports, et cetera under watch, but so far, nothing yet."

"Bugger..." This time, when John closed his eyes, he did drift off.

The Science of Deduction

Latest Forum Posts

Harry Watson:

To everone - Sherlock Holmes is a arsehole and manipilitive user who doesn't care about anybody but himself! He'll use you til you die then throw you away like an old teabag. He nearly got my brother kiled and doesn't even care! He doesn't have any feellings an should be locked up! He's insane! Dont get involved with him or you'll regret it! He's a horrible horrible person! He's a bad detetive too he can't even find Moriarty who's going to kill my brother!

It was late afternoon when John woke up again, and this time opening his eyes wasn't so difficult. Slowly but surely he was regaining some strength, however, John knew he still had a long way to go.

Sherlock was there again - or still - and was watching him intently.

"What?" John asked. "Moriarty?"

"No." Sherlock told him, "Harry posted a nasty comment on my website. She says I'm a terrible detective! Can you imagine? That...that _drunkard_ has the gall to call _me_ a bad detective?" No response. Sherlock looked at John, who was staring at him, eyebrows raised in irritation. "What!"

"She's still my sister." John said flatly.

"She blames me for what happened to you." Sherlock told him angrily. "She said I don't care about anyone but myself. She's wrong. John, you...you are my friend. Aren't you?" Sherlock finished in a tone like that of a lost child. John sighed, reflecting that if Sherlock ever perfected puppy-dog eyes he'd _really_ be in trouble.

"Yes, of course I'm your friend. And you're right, Harry had no right to say nasty things about you. Especially since I've told her more than once that I make my own decisions and they are none of her business."

"Fine. Then marry me." Sherlock blurted.

John's jaw dropped. "Wh...what?"

"Please don't make me repeat it." Sherlock said weakly. "Um...Mrs. Hudson suggested that if we were...um...you know...then I'd be your next of kin and Harry wouldn't have any say in...well...anything."

John clapped his mouth shut hard enough that his teeth clicked audibly. However, instead, his eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

"Er...um. What?"


	7. Chapter 7

John hadn't even had time to recover from Sherlock's incredible proposal before there was a knock at the door and an older woman with faded green eyes and steel-gray hair in a bun came into the room.

"Oh, good, you're awake." She said cheerfully. "Would you like supper?"

John opened his mouth to refuse, then thought better of it. He wasn't hungry himself, but it was a sure bet Sherlock needed to eat. Sherlock always needed to eat - because he never did. "Yes, please. Soup and sandwich if you have it."

"Certainly." The woman replied, and left, shutting the door after her.

John took the time to discretely study Sherlock. Not difficult to do, because the other man was now staring out the window, oblivious to everything else. John frowned, not liking what he saw. Sherlock was, if possible, even thinner than before. He had what looked to be the remains of a first-degree burn to the face and hands fading, and underneath he looked a bit peaky. _Feverish, unless I'm mistaken_, John thought. He also took note of Sherlock's attempts to suppress a cough, and realized Sherlock probably had picked up a case of pneumonia, from which he was obviously recovering. _Probably Mrs. Hudson has been forcing meds and at least a little food down his throat._ Finally, the older woman returned with a tray of food which she set on the rolling table at the foot of John's bed. She helped him raise the head of the bed so that he was in a sitting position before finally leaving him alone with a reminder that she'd be back to pick up the tray in half an hour.

"Here." John said, moving the plate with the sandwich towards Sherlock. "Antibiotics go better with food, no matter what the bottle says. But I'm sure Mrs. Hudson already told you that." Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but didn't deny any of it. Nor did he bother to ask how John knew. He did, however, fish the bottle of meds from his coat pocket. He sat down, took one of the pills and washed it down with the juice on John's tray. Then he picked up the sandwich. He narrowed his eyes.

"Ham and Swiss." Sherlock said, in the same tone he used when one of his experiments produced a result he didn't like.

"Oh, don't be a baby." John told him in a tone that brooked no protest, spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. "Just eat it." Petulantly, Sherlock took a bite and chewed. "Besides, I need time to think, and, contrary to your beliefs, it is possible to do both at the same time."

They ate in silence, but John was only able to eat a few spoonfuls before his strength began to give out. He pushed the bowl away, but said nothing until Sherlock had finished the sandwich and the rest of the juice.

"Were you really serious? About getting married for legal reasons, I mean?" John asked soberly. Sherlock nodded, just as seriously. John closed his eyes and sighed. Then he opened his eyes, and stared intensely at Sherlock. "Before I answer, I need you to answer the following scenario: I've been in an auto accident. I'm unconscious, and trapped. The quickest and easiest way to free me is by amputating my hand, which while damaged, isn't necessarily beyond saving. But, the extra time it would take to free me might possibly mean my life. What do you tell the rescue people to do?"

Sherlock immediately opened his mouth to say 'lose the hand', but closed it without speaking, and really thought about what John was asking. Or rather, _why_ he was asking. It was hard, because it wasn't something that had ever been asked of him before - to make a decision like this about someone else's well-being. But this was the reason for the whole next-of-kin question, and Sherlock certainly didn't trust John's alcoholic sister to make such important decisions - even when sober. So. Sherlock knew what _he'd_ want, but what would _John_ want? John was a doctor; his hands were his life. Yes, Sherlock would choose to have him rescued as soon as possible, but that wasn't the point. The point was _John's_ wants, balanced with his needs.

"Save the hand." Sherlock finally said. John nodded, only then smiling approval.

"Then my answer to your proposal is yes."

Sherlock grinned. "Well, then, I'd best let Sarah and Mrs. Hudson know - they're planning everything." John's eyebrows went up.

"Sarah and Mrs. Hudson are planning our wedding? But I thought-"

"That we'd have it here in your room? Yes, but they insist upon a reception when you get home." Sherlock said, eyes rolling in exasperation.

"Oh, god." John groaned.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: I guess I should have researched civil ceremonies in England _before_ I started writing this story! Then I would have known about the 16-day waiting period (although I don't remember anything mentioned about a waiting period in any of the stories I saw [and admittedly didn't really read all that closely] about gay marriage). Ah, well, I would have written in this solution (simple and obvious as it is) anyway, and I hope it is sufficient for the purposes of this story.

Also, this story is turning out way longer than I had anticipated, but should only be one or two more chapters. Thank you to all who have stuck with it!

Oh, and by the way, the quote John tells Harry is from Shakespeare's _Julius Ceasar_.

* * *

Sherlock had left the hospital shortly after supper, and John had fallen asleep shortly after that. He awoke late in the morning, and was momentarily perplexed to see a nurse standing in his room, gazing out the window. Then, even from the back, he recognized her.

"Harry!" He snapped. She turned, and that was when John realized the nurse's uniform was ill-fitting. He didn't bother to question whether she'd stolen the uniform from a supply cupboard or had seduced a nurse and then taken her uniform. He didn't care. "I told you I didn't want to see you again." He said coldly, reaching for the call-button. But Harry grabbed it before he could use it.

"John, please, just let me talk for one minute?" The pleading in her eyes didn't move him, but John wasn't strong enough yet to fight her for the call-button. "John, I'm sorry about telling you that Sherlock was dead, but don't you see how dangerous he is? I was opposed to you joining the army, and I was scared the whole time you were gone. And now that I've got you back, I just want you to be safe."

John gazed at her with a coldness that actually made Harry shudder. "And I'm only going to say this one last time before I yell for help. So listen closely, Harriet Watson. Before I met Sherlock, I wasn't living, I was just...existing. A doctor with no patients, a soldier out of the war. Sherlock has given me purpose and life."

"I just want you to have a safe life!" Harry cried.

"And I don't want a safe life!" John snapped. "'Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once'."

"Valor?" Harry scoffed. "Stupidity is more like it!"

"That's enough!" John yelled. "I've had enough of yours and Mycroft's opinions on the subject! This is my life, and I will live it as I choose! Now go away and stay away!" And John made a mad lunge, grabbed the call-button back from Harry, and pressed it vigorously before she could stop him. A nurse appeared immediately, already drawn by the raised voices in the room. "Get her out of here! And I'd suggest you do something about the security round here; it's obviously lax if my sister can stroll in here in a stolen nurse's uniform!" Flustered, the nurse immediately summoned security.

"John, please!" Harry pleaded as a security guard dragged her out. But John turned away from her, panting from his exertions - both mental and physical.

"Also, there's a Sarah Sawyer wanting to consult on your case with Dr. Langencamp." The nurse told him as soon as Harry was gone. John wasn't sure whether to laugh or groan.

"Er, yes, um, she wants to check with the doctor to see when I'll be up to, um, getting married." He said, flushing. The nurse grinned.

"Oh, well, congratulations! Sarah seemed a very nice young lady!" Now John blushed furiously.

"Um, well, actually, I'm not marrying Sarah, she's just planning everything. It's Sherlock I'm marrying, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't let Harry know."

"Of course." The nurse said grinning, obviously understanding, at least, that Harry wouldn't approve. "I can't say for sure, but I don't think you should be released for another couple of days, however, you might be able to have a short ceremony right here. I know it's not what you had planned, but if you really insist upon going through with it on your chosen date, the hospital chapel is also an approved venue for civil ceremonies." John nodded, suddenly not trusting himself to speak, mind working furiously. The nurse smiled and left John alone with his thoughts. He hadn't been clear-headed enough to realize it before, but he suddenly remembered that there's a sixteen-day waiting period after giving notice before the actual ceremony could take place. The nurse obviously thought they'd already done everything properly. But they hadn't. So what...then it came to him. Mycroft was probably taking care of everything, he realized, although if whatever he did was ever questioned, the marriage could be declared void.

'Well, then, we'll just have to have a second ceremony, only without the cheating.' John realized. Satisfied with that solution, John leaned back to rest.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting - therefore, here's TWO chapters to make up for it! And, there's only one more chapter to go, although if I am motivated to, I may write, not so much a sequel, but maybe another story in this same "mythology". I do have an idea or two...

* * *

Gunfire. Screams. Explosions "Corpsman!" Gunfire. Yelling. Pain. Can't breathe!

John's eyes popped open. He gasped, and the gasp turned into a hacking cough which turned into sharp pain.

"Easy, easy, John." A female voice soothed gently. It took too many agonizing seconds for the cough to subside, but the pain remained, leaving John panting, tears rolling down his cheeks. "Here." The female voice spoke again, and John finally recognized Sarah. A wet cloth wiped sweat and tears from his face as the pain finally faded to a dull ache.

"Nightmare." John told her, still a bit breathless. "Been awhile."

"The pool incident was too much like Afghanistan, eh?" Sarah asked sympathetically. John nodded. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not particularly." He repllied. Sarah smiled sympathetically, then said,

"Then let's talk about the wedding. Dr. Langencamp told me your pneumonia is proving stubborn; probably your resistance is down because of the injuries. Anyway, he doesn't like the combination of injuries and illness, so he wants the pneumonia gone before he'll discharge you. Three days, at least. But he did say you should be able to make it to the chapel for a short ceremony tomorrow after morning rounds. So we've booked the chapel for nine o'clock."

"And Harry?" John wondered. "Any idea how she got in here?" Sarah shook her head.

"Surveillance shows her coming in through the ambulance entrance, already in the nurse's uniform, so she didn't steal it after she got here, but as for how she got the uniform, well, they're still working on that. None of us has talked to her, or said anything about the wedding, so as far as we know, she still doesn't know about it. Oh, and speaking of, who do you want to stand witness for you? Sherlock has chosen Mrs. Hudson, and you can imagine how happy she is; she went right out to buy a new dress for the occasion!" Sarah finished, grinning. John grinned back, then sobered as he thought about it.

"Would you stand with me?" He asked hesitantly. "I know we started out dating, but..."

"But now we're friends and co-workers, and I'd be happy to stand with you." Sarah smiled reassuringly. "Besides, the fewer people who know beforehand, the better. Once it's done, you can tell other friends and invite them to the reception, which, by the way, we'll have the day after you're released, if you're feeling up to it, and we'll just have it in Mrs. Hudson's flat."

"Mrs. Hudson's flat?" John asked. Sarah giggled.

"Oh, yes! Mrs. Hudson insisted that your flat is too dangerous with all the chemicals and the pig parts now residing in the fridge and you should have seen the look on her face when she went for milk for tea and saw them!"

"Not good, eh?" John couldn't help but grin.

"Bit not good!" Sarah said vehemently. "Anyway, tomorrow Dr. Langencamp should know for sure when you'll be released, and we can make the announcement where and when." John nodded.


	10. Chapter 10

"Not too bad." Dr. Langencamp said as he removed the stethoscope from John's back. "You can proceed with the wedding as scheduled, but I don't think getting into a tuxedo is a good idea. A dress pants and shirt should be all right, though. But then, right back into pyjamas and back into bed. And you should be able to go home day after tomorrow. I understand the reception is to be the day after that, and that should be all right, but no dancing or other strenuous activity. And no sex for at least a month, hear!" John scoffed and rolled his eyes.

"This it for legal reasons only. No sex even contemplated. Now or ever." He assured the other man.

At eight o'clock, Sarah arrived with a pair of black trousers and white button-down shirt for John. She herself had bought a new dress for the occasion, too - a bright green with lace at sleeves and neckline. John slowly and carefully changed clothes, allowing Sarah to assist only minimally, chafing at his invalidism. Finally, however, he was ready, and a nurse arrived at the door with a wheelchair. With Sarah walking beside him, John was wheeled to the chapel, where he was quickly briefed on the procedure by the Superintendant Registrar performing the ceremony. The Superintendant Registrar went into the chapel, and John entered a few minutes later, Sarah now pushing the wheelchair. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson came in, then, Sherlock dressed in a suit and tie, Mrs. Hudson in her new dress - smart, navy blue. When they were all gathered at the altar, the Superintendant Registrar began,

"If there is just cause that these two people should not be wed, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." Sherlock, John, Sarah and Mrs. Hudson all looked involuntarily at the door, holding their breaths, praying Harry had not somehow heard and was coming to interrupt the proceedings. But, after a moment, as nothing happened, everyone slowly let out their breaths, and turned back to the Superintendant Registrar. The ceremony continued with no further hinderance, although Mrs. Hudson did start to cry partway through ("I always cry at weddings!" Sherlock started to roll his eyes, but John and Sarah narrowed theirs at him in a death glare. He subsided.) The Registrar had already been informed that there would be no "kissing your spouse" part, and so skipped over it. Soon, the paperwork was signed, and Sherlock himself pushed John's wheelchair out of the chapel. It wasn't until they were back in John's room and John was back in pyjamas and in bed that everyone breathed a sigh of relief that it was all over. Mycroft had sent the limosine to drive the Registrar - just to be on the safe side. He wanted the paperwork filed as soon as possible.

That afternoon, John changed his official next of kin over to Sherlock and visa versa.

During his evening rounds, Dr. Langencamp was satisfied that John's little excursion hadn't caused a relapse, and reiterated his decision that John could be discharged in two days. John texted the general announcement of the marriage and specific invitations (to Mike Stamford, Bill Murray [the nurse, not the film star], and DI Lestrade) to the "informal get-together" at Mrs. Hudson's flat that would serve as a reception.

Then, he waited for the fall-out.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: I had intended that this be the last chapter, but the events herein ended up being longer than I'd originally intended, so I made it a short chapter of it's own. The reception really will by the next chapter, I promise!

* * *

It only took five minutes for the fun to begin; various of the rugby lads chimed in with texts full of stunned congratulations, although the one who called him nasty names was apparently jumped on by the others, for a few minutes later he texted a terse apology and even more terse congratulations. Mike Stamford was next - another stunned well-wisher. Then, a few moments later Bill Murray, who texted:

_Never would have taken you for a pofter, what with all the women you dated. I think you went through every female in the British Army! Best of luck anyway. And yes, I'll be at the reception along with the wife._

John impatiently sent back a short reply: _This was for legal reasons. Was having problems with Harry being my next of kin._

Bill sent back an even shorter reply: _Right!_

John rolled his eyes and gave up. He'd explain more fully at the reception.

DI Lestrade finally sent both a text and a picture. The text read: _Congratulations and please consider this my RSVP + 1 to your little get-together. Attached is a picture of Sgt. Donovan's and Anderson's reactions to the news. You don't want to know what they said._

John opened up the picture, and couldn't help but laugh. Their expressions were priceless, and John decided to keep this picture. Sherlock, he knew, would love it.

He waited impatiently for something from Harry, but there was no response. This worried John more than any nasty text would have.

He was awakened from a short nap when Sherlock returned that afternoon. John, snickering, showed him the picture Lestrade had sent. Sherlock laughed, but then sobered.

"Sarah and Mrs. Hudson are still rather frantically trying to get our reception together in time. I've seen them both coming in with so many bags and boxes, you'd think they were going to decorate the entire street. It's quite frightening, really."

"What's frightening is that I haven't heard anything from Harry." Sherlock's eyebrows went up.

"No? Hmm, that is scary." Sherlock said. "I'm afraid to find out what she's up to."

"Could she challenge the marriage? We didn't exactly give the proper notice, you know."

"Mycroft said he'd take care of it." Sherlock said, shaking his head. "I'm sure he's got post-dated documents or something. The advantages of being the British Government, you know." John frowned, a sudden idea coming to mind.

"You know, the first time I met him, he expressed surprise at how quickly I took to you. His exact words were "Since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. May we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?""

"And you're wondering," Sherlock speculated, eyes narrowed. "Whether he's had the paperwork ready since then." John nodded. "It's possible. I wouldn't put it past my brother. He has a...peculiar sense of humor. At any rate, I doubt any legal forces Harry can bring to bear are any match for Mycroft. She won't find any legal grounds to void the marriage."

"Good." John sighed in relief.


	12. Chapter 12

A/N: Sorry, sorry, sorry! Last chapter, I made a promise I couldn't keep, because I later realized I still had a loose end to tie up! Sorry!

* * *

John awoke, gasping, from another nightmare, except that in this one, John moved as if in slow motion, able only to watch as Sherlock was gunned down by the snipers at the pool. Sharp pain struck him as he breathed too deeply, aggravating his broken ribs. John whispered a moan as he tried to shake the dream and control his breathing.

"Are you all right?" A female voice inquired. John's pain-whitened vision cleared as the pain subsided. He glanced up to see his morning nurse changing the IV which held his antibiotics and other medications. John nodded.

"Just a nightmare." He managed.

"Well, maybe it's a good thing Doctor Fong is here to see you." The nurse told him. "She's the in-patient psychiatrist." John frowned, only now noticing the short, Asian woman in the doorway. The woman entered the room and moved to John's bedside, exchanging places with the nurse, who, finished with her task, moved out of the room.

"Well, like Jacqui said, I'm Dr. Fong. After seeing your medical history, Dr. Langencamp suggested I talk to you, just to make sure the trauma of what happened isn't going to add to what you've already been through. Although, if you're having nightmares, I guess that question's been answered." Dr. Fong finished ironically.

Dr. Fong set a mini-recorder on the bedside table, pushed "record", then asked John some standard questions, name, birthday and such, just for the record. Then she asked more specific questions - the same questions Ella Thompson had asked after his return from Afghanistan. Suddenly, however, she began asking him questions that seemed irrelevant to the current situation.

"Do you like Bungee Jumping?" She asked. John stared at her, startled.

"Bun-Bungee Jumping? No." John replied, wondering why she would ask him something out of the blue like that.

"Well, do you engage in extreme sports or fighting?"

"What? No! God, no! I saw too much of that sort of action in Afghanistan professionally. Why would I want to do something like that in my off-time?" John asked, confused.

"Well, you do go haring off with this psychopathic Sherlock Holmes person." Dr. Fong sniffed. John began to get a glimmer of where she might be going with this.

"Sherlock Holmes may be a bit sociopathic, but he's definitely not a psychopath. He assists the police in _solving_ crimes!" He told her indignantly. "We're _helping_ people, not just...just doing something dangerous for the adrenalin rush!"

"No?" Dr. Fong said, intensely, leaning forward in her chair. "That's not what Harry thinks, and I believe she may be right! I think you are an adrenalin junkie and are not in your right mind!"

"What?" John said, stunned. He grabbed the call button and pushed it angrily. Fortunately, Dr. Langencamp was next door on morning rounds, and came in immediately.

"Something I can help you with?" The other man asked.

"Yes!" John pushed himself up in annoyance, ignoring the pain the action engendered. "This...doctor...said she was here to find out if I'm suffering from PTSD and then accused me of being barmy!"

"He is obviously an adrenalin addict, and a danger to himself. He needs to be institutionalized!" Dr. Fong stated. Dr. Langencamp frowned.

"An adrenalin addict who needs to be institutionalized? That's a bit harsh." Dr. Langencamp protested. At the same time, the rest of what Dr. Fong had said registered, and John understood.

"You!" John said suddenly. The other two doctors turned to stare at him in confusion. "You were the one Harry got the nurse's uniform from! You helped her get in here after I'd banned her from my room! Well, it won't work anyway, I've got it on record that I told you I don't engage in dangerous sports! I'm not an adrenalin addict!" And he grabbed the recorder off the table.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Dr. Fong cried, and grabbed for the recorder. In her haste, she fell over onto John. His vision whited out as the agony hit him. Vaguely, he felt the recorder being ripped out of his hand, but knew nothing else but the pain for some time. Finally, his vision cleared, and he began noticing what was going on around him again. To his surprise, Sherlock was standing beside his bed, looking angrier than John had ever seen him. Dr. Langencamp was at John's side, and Dr. Fong was smiling triumphantly at Sherlock.

"Now there's no record of our session!" She was saying. But Sherlock, still looking angry, simply stooped down and picked up something from the floor. When he straightened, John saw the remains of the cassette tape in pieces in his hand.

"No record?" Sherlock said contemptuously. "You obviously know as much about modern technology as you do of psychiatry! This can be repaired in about an hour!" Dr. Fong stiffened as Sherlock put the pieces of the cassette tape in his pocket. Then, he turned to Dr. Langencamp. "I want this woman brought up on charges of misconduct and endangering a patient's life!" Sherlock spat. "You could have re-collapsed that lung!" He told her, furiously. Dr. Fong at least had the decency to look regretful at that. Dr. Langencamp, not looking too happy himself, nodded and rang for a nurse to call security.

"Why don't you step out, Sherlock, while I examine John to make sure there isn't any more damage?" But Sherlock didn't move until a security guard had come to take Dr. Fong out. Then he patted John's hand.

"I'll be right outside the door." Sherlock told John.

A few moments later, Dr. Langencamp exited John's room.

"Well, she didn't do him any good, but it doesn't look like she did him any serious damage, either. I want to keep him here until tomorrow morning, just to be on the safe side."

Sherlock nodded, then went into John's room to keep him company for the day.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Well, I knew how I was going to finish this story, but not how I was going to end it, if that makes sense. I hope it was satisfactory. I may change it at some point if I come up with something better, but at this point, consider it done. However, I do think I'll do at least one more story in this "mythology"; I have an idea for a case-based story.

Also, thank you all for the wonderful reviews! It makes me feel like I'm not too much a bad hack writer.

* * *

Finally, John was home. He'd taken each phase - from hospital to car, from car to building, up the stairs and onto the sofa - slowly and carefully. Now, he was settled on the sofa with a cup of tea and bad telly. The reception would be tomorrow afternoon, but would only last a couple of hours, in deference to John's continuing convalescence. He still napped occasionally, and ate little that day, but Mrs. Hudson had provided soup, and Sherlock wordlessly pressed a cupful on him whenever he awoke. John was a bit amused, but said nothing.

The next afternoon, John showered for the first time since he'd been injured. He'd had sponge baths, but a real shower just felt so much better, although he had to move carefully, and Sherlock had had to help tape plastic over the bandages to keep them dry.

He moved just as carefully while getting dressed, but finally, he was ready to go downstairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat. Well, ready physically, but mentally was another story. He really wasn't looking forward to a reception; he thought it ridiculous anyway, due to the marriage being for legal reasons only. But it meant so much to Mrs. Hudson that Sherlock hadn't the heart to deny her. John had hidden his amusement at that.

Sarah was already there, and helped get John settled on Mrs. Hudson's sofa. Shortly thereafter, Mycroft had arrived, carrying a large box. Gregory Lestrade came in shortly after that with a long, flat box and a petite brunette introduced to everyone as Greg's wife, Amanda. She congratulated John and Sherlock with a smile, then, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, and a superior smirk, she told Sherlock,

"I think this marriage is a good idea for more than just so John has someone other than his troubled sister as his next of kin. Perhaps having someone else's well-being to think about might help you be a more sympathetic person." Sherlock glared at her, and John stifled a laugh in one hand.

Sherlock was glad to finally meet Bill Murray, however, because he was able to thank the nurse for saving John's life in Afghanistan. Which, naturally, led to Bill reciting the tale of how John had been shot behind enemy lines and Bill had shoved him into a jeep and driven like a madman to the nearest medical facility.

Mrs. Hudson and Sarah had decided against a full meal, since the reception would only last a couple of hours, so instead, they had finger foods scattered about, and drinks on the kitchen table. Much of it disappeared while Bill told his story.

When Mike Stamford finally arrived, Mrs. Hudson handed the first gift to Sherlock. He quickly, awkwardly, handed it to John, who, amused, tore off the wrapping to reveal an ornate silver tea service from Mycroft. Sherlock glared at his brother, but John rather liked the set. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Don't touch this. You are never to touch this. Not for an experiment, not to hide body parts in - nothing! Got it?" John said in a tone that even Sherlock did not dare ignore although he did reach out one finger to touch, only to have the hand smacked away. Sherlock glared at John. Then he did the only thing he felt appropriate - he stuck his tongue out at the older man. Everyone laughed. Mrs. Hudson handed the next gift - from Bill Murray and his wife - directly to John, pointedly by-passing Sherlock completely. Laughing, John opened it. The box contained two items: An expensive magnifying glass with a light, and an object that looked to John like a gold-plated meat thermometer. When John held it up in a questioning manner, Bill explained,

"It's for taking the liver temperature of a body at a crime scene. Thought you could use it considering the work you do with your new husband."

John looked uncomfortable, but Greg said,

"Huh! Not a bad idea." John and Sherlock both glanced at each other, startled, but John handed the instruments to Sherlock, who examined the magnifying glass closely. With a smile of approval, he put the two instruments aside. John then proceeded to open the gifts from Sarah, Mike Stamford, and Mrs. Hudson. Then, genuinely curious, he opened the long, flat box from the Lestrades. When he folded aside the tissue paper, his jaw dropped. Sherlock, interested now, said,

"John? What is it?" For answer, John lifted it carefully out. The item looked like a machete, with a blade slightly wider at the tip than at the base. The tip angled sharply out to a single edge. And, while the blade itself was utilitarian-looking, the hilt and pommel were ornately carved ebony, while the straight cross-guard was metal, but engraved with intricate scrollwork. The matching sheath was also carved ebony, with metal strappings inlaid with more scrollwork. There were gasps all around, puzzlement from John, and startlement from Sherlock and Mycroft.

"I actually found that in an antique shop." Greg told them smugly. Mycroft chuckled at John's continuing confusion. Finally, he took pity on his brother-in-law, and explained,

"John, we were discussing the best weapons for a Zombie Apocalypse - please don't ask why - and Sherlock mentioned your skill with a falchion." John's look of confusion faded, and he chuckled, holding the weapon up to examine it critically.

"Well," He finally said approvingly, "Whoever owned this before took good care of it. It's in excellent condition. If there should ever be a Zombie Apocalypse, rest assured this will get a good work-out." There were chuckles all around, under cover of which, Greg told John,

"Considering the trouble you two get up to, I wouldn't be surprised if a Zombie Apocalypse isn't the only time it gets a good work-out." John chuckled dryly.

"You're probably right. Best to keep it handy, then."

Shortly thereafter, Mrs. Hudson nudged Sherlock and gestured with her chin at John. Sherlock glanced at him and frowned. John was sitting stiffly and looking pale, and Sherlock realized the older man was exhausted and in pain. He nodded agreement to Mrs. Hudson, and the landlady diplomatically ended the party.

Mycroft hung back, however, and, after everyone had left, he handed John an envelope. Puzzled, John opened it, and gasped, looking even more stunned than when he'd opened the sword. Sherlock took the envelope from lax fingers, and looked at what it contained. Then he, too, stared at Mycroft, stunned.

There was a photograph of a rifle on a short tripod. The accompanying note simply said: Barrett M98 gas-powered, semi-automatic sniper rifle with ammunition. Available upon request - no questions asked.

John's brain finally began working again, and he said,

"Zombie Apocalypse?" Mycroft simply smiled, and pointed to the last line of the note. John shook his head. Then he frowned.

"Wait. I thought the M98 in semi-automatic version never went into production because the M98 Bravo in bolt-action single-shot came out instead." Again, Mycroft merely smiled, this time enigmatically. John sighed. "Right, I don't even know why I asked."

"When you're feeling up to it," Mycroft said then, "Let me know and I'll arrange for you to get to a gun range to fire it."

John, looking admiringly at the photograph, glanced up and smiled. "I will." He said.

Mycroft left immediately thereafter, and Sherlock accompanied John back up the stairs. John sank gratefully down on the sofa, while Sherlock went for a glass of water and John's meds. After the older man had downed them, he painfully shifted to lay down. Sherlock arranged the duvet over him, and then, thoughtfully, took out his violin.

To John's pleasure, Sherlock began playing something gentle and slow.

"Thanks." John murmured. "For everything." Sherlock smiled.

"Go to sleep, John."

"Good night, Next of Kin." He chuckled softly, and drifted off to sleep.

The End.


End file.
